I smile. The idea has never even occurred to me, which is no secret to anyone. “No, I’m not married.”
“So no children, I assume.”
“No children.”
There’s nothing judgemental about her attitude, the way she looks at me is reassuring, at least as reassuring as the discovery that I finished my pasta before the others.
“Do you work hard?”
“Quite hard.”
My life is what she’s interested in now. I’ve never thought about it before, but I’d like to dig into it and find something that makes it more interesting. I have the feeling that my work, my clubbing, my vices are as far away from her world as it’s possible to be. All at once, the table seems to grow between the two of us. I know I might scare her off. I’m not like this Giorgio who keeps pouring her wine, I’m not a good person. Some people seem to be enveloped in a halo of benevolence, a halo that prevents anger from turning nasty and becoming hate. In my life, though, anger has become indifference. I’m capable of committing despicable acts and dismissing them as if they were nothing to do with me. I learnt betrayal at school. At the age of twelve, I persuaded Alice, with whom I shared a desk, to take off her knickers in front of my friends. Every time she tried to push our hands away from her thighs we would laugh, with that taste for wickedness which at the age of twelve may appear innocent. One day I told her I loved her, all I wanted in return was to know what people meant when they talked about sex. A week later, I shifted my attentions to her best friend, whose skin smelt of fruit.
I imagine that if Isabelle looked in my memory and found Alice’s eyes, just as I remember them, she’d stop smiling at me. The point is that her smile is like a hand that comes to rest on your back, like a push. Perhaps for the first time since I came into the world, I’m staring into the abyss of my own conscience.
By now the candles are flickering and the evening is winding to its end. Everyone is walking towards their own cars. Kisses, words of farewell. I don’t lose sight of her for a moment. I’m waiting for her to approach me and say something.
“Goodbye, Svevo. It’s been nice meeting you.”
I take her hand and she squeezes mine in return. All I can find to say is a whispered “See you soon”. I’m usually more talkative, more self-confident. If it was any other woman, I’d already have her phone number in my pocket.
She hesitates, as if she wants to ask me something, but Giorgio is still calling her. I see her get in his car and I can’t do anything about it. I’ve become afraid of time again, I sense You’re about to resume Your race and I don’t know how to stop You.
When I get back behind the wheel, my mind clouds over and all I can do is press my foot down on the accelerator. All the same, I have the feeling I’ll see her again. There must be a reason she’s entered my life at this particular juncture, a reason she’s managed to slow down my time.
By the time I get to the garage, my watch has taken a leap forward and it’s already two o’clock in the morning. The whole evening reminds me of one of those music videos where some of the images are speeded up and others are suddenly slowed down, and when they slow down she comes towards me, swaying, with her haze of red hair.
Just before I put my key in the lock, I hear a woman crying behind me.
11
WHEN I TURN, I see Gaëlle, curled up on the mat by the door that leads up to the terrace of the building. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her crying.
“Gaëlle, what are you doing here?” I ask, sitting down next to her. “What’s the matter?”
She looks so defenceless, my first instinct is to put my arms around her. But Gaëlle aims at me those sapphires she has instead of eyes and asks me to switch off the light on the stairs. “I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing me in this state.” Her tone is sharp and irritable. She doesn’t give me time to open my mouth. “Look, I know you’re enjoying this.”
I shake my head, I’d like to tell her she’s wrong.
“Don’t be a hypocrite.”
“It’s the last thing on my mind,” I reassure her in a paternal tone that doesn’t even sound like me.
“You like it, don’t you?” she insists. “Seeing me crumble like this. You can’t fool me, I know how your mind works. You vanished because this is what you wanted, to see me crumble at last.” She throws me a fiery gaze, then immediately turns away.
She’s pale, there are rings under her eyes, and her lipstick is smudged.
“What are you talking about?”
She gives a nervous little laugh. “I hate you,” she says. “And to think I lost my head over you.” More impatient than ever, she gets up and comes and stands in front of me. “Why don’t you say anything?”
She doesn’t give me time.
“You’re really hurting me,” she says, with a look in her eyes that in any other circumstances I’d find disarming. “I did everything I could to stay with you, even deluded myself I could be satisfied with that kind of non-relationship. But now I can’t stand it any more…”
“Who are you?” I’d like to ask, but once again I don’t have time, because suddenly Gaëlle opens the door of my apartment. “I’m sleeping with you,” she announces, walking in. “I want to fuck you all night long.”
If everything was normal, a scene like this would have excited me more than you could imagine. Not this time.
“I know you like it when I talk like that,” she continues, but it’s as if she’s addressing someone who doesn’t exist any more.
She touches my neck, first with her fingertips, then with her lips, which are cold and damp. I remain rigid, distant. She bursts into tears again. Because of my accelerated time, her behaviour comes across as psychotic, which of course it may actually be. “I shouldn’t have…” she stammers. “I knew I was wrong, but I wanted to hurt you in some way… I didn’t think anything would make me feel better.”
She’s on the verge of a confession, which is the last thing I’d have expected of her. I make an effort to appear surprised. “What are you talking about?”
She wipes her tears. “I’m talking about Federico,” she says. “I slept with him.”
I know this is the image of her that will remain with me, perhaps the most genuine: her head held high, that angry, accusing look in her eyes, even as she admits to a nasty gesture like that.
“Did you hear what I said?” Her voice rises in pitch. “I slept with your best friend!”
I give her a slap, just to make her stop. Shouting it at the top of her voice won’t make it seem like my fault.
I wonder if two months ago I would have forgiven her, or if I would have continued sleeping with her, even knowing. Now I’d only like to pick her up out of the hole she’s rushed headlong into. She seems like a little insect that’s dying, her wings crumpled, too weak to fly again.
She lays her cheek on my chest and at last closes her eyes. I hold her in my arms, while she asks me to understand her. “I did it to take everything from you,” she says, “the way you took everything from me.”
She’s fragile, a beautiful orchid deprived of water. Her hair is unkempt, and she’s breathing heavily. “Don’t leave me.”
I don’t know who she is. All those nights of sex, those forbidden games, the shameless phone calls and messages, and now I don’t have the slightest idea who she is. It’s incredible, the distance I’ve ended up putting between myself and people.
She presses her lips to mine with a new urgency that’s unusual in her.
A moment ago she told me she knew how my mind worked. Who was that man you filled your head with strategies for, Gaëlle? Tell me, I’d like to know too. How did I look at you, what did I say to you? This kiss is pointless. You know that too, don’t you?